


Knick Knack Paddy Whack

by killabeez



Category: 2 Guns (2013)
Genre: Author's Favorite, First Time, M/M, Made in a Facility That Handles Mark Wahlberg, Oral Sex, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 02:20:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1965267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killabeez/pseuds/killabeez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not like Bobby can blame anyone but himself. The whole thing is his fault, if only because he fails to see it coming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knick Knack Paddy Whack

**Author's Note:**

>  
> 
> _"Where'd you two find each other?"_  
>  _"I threw him a bone one night, he followed me home."_  
> 

Bobby goes to Mexico. That's his first mistake. Deb's dead, Stig's off the reservation, and he doesn't have anything left to lose. It's a formula for disaster on an epic scale.

By some miracle and the fact that Stig wasn't blowing smoke when he said he never missed, Bobby's suicide play actually works; they get out of there alive and mostly in one piece, leaving the wreckage of a SEAL team, a CIA helicopter, and an entire Mexican drug cartel in their rear view. Bobby feels bad about shooting Stig afterwards, but it's not like he had a choice. Besides, he stitches the leg up himself in a motel an hour north of the border, which is more than Stig did for him.

His second mistake is, he didn't plan for what he was gonna do if they survived. He most definitely didn't plan for the way things went down, Michael Stigman turning out to be the closest thing to a partner he's ever had. He didn't plan for _This makes us family._

Which is how he finds himself driving through the desert with the windows down, spending the night in roadside motels with the last person on earth he ever expected.

* * *

Three days in, at a deserted rest stop outside Bakersfield, Bobby can't take it any more.

"Why you always gotta do that?"

"Do what?"

"Always chewin' on a stick of gum or a toothpick or some crap, like you got no clue how to function without constantly workin' your jaw up and down."

"So?"

"So, it's annoying."

Stig stares at him askance. "You serious?"

"Yeah, I'm serious."

"My chewing is annoying to you."

"That's what I'm saying."

"Anybody ever tell you, you need to learn how to relax?"

Bobby scoffs. "Me. I need to learn how to relax."

Stig flips his gum to the other side of his mouth and raises one eyebrow. "Well, if the shoe fits."

Bobby's jaw shifts with the effort not to clench his teeth. "I am relaxed. I'm so relaxed, I been driving in my sleep. Not my fault you're orally fixated."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

There's a pause, in which Bobby is reminded, not for the first time, that Michael Stigman is more perceptive than anyone gives him credit for. Then he says, "Wanna know what I think?"

"Not particularly."

"I think you're the one with the problem, here, Bobby."

"I don't got a problem. I got no problem whatsoever."

Stig does that thing with his eyebrows that makes Bobby feel like the butt of some universal joke. "Yeah, well, I think you do."

"And like I said, what you think don't matter to me."

"Oh, really."

"You got some kind of hearing deficiency?"

"Not last time I checked."

Stig looks at him, still chewing his gum with that maddening, deliberate hint of a smirk. Bobby, with the feeling that he really ought to know better, finally gives in. "All right, fine. What's my problem?"

Stig flashes him a grin. "Me."

"That right there? Might be the truest thing you've ever said."

"More specifically, my mouth."

Bobby gives a disbelieving laugh.

"I'm serious."

"You're serious."

"As a heart attack. I think you got a problem, and I think I know how to solve it." And with that, Stig takes the gum out of his mouth, cranks open the window, and tosses it into the scraggly brown grass.

"Of course you do," Bobby says, still in the game—until Stigman shifts around in the passenger seat and slips one hand under Bobby's shirt. Bobby grabs hold of his wrist hard enough to break it if Stig's not careful. "Wait, whoa, whoa, whoa. What the hell do you think you're doin'?"

"What's it look like?" Undeterred, Stig's fingers curl under the waisband of Bobby's jeans. He's starting to work the button free, heedless of Bobby's death grip, watching Bobby's face the whole time.

Like a man on the business end of a revolver playing Russian roulette, Bobby fakes like he's unfazed and stares Stigman down as if his life depends on it. "Don't fuck with me."

"I'm not."

"I'm _serious._ "

"Me, too," Stig says.

He tugs on Bobby's zipper, and this has gone way, way too far. Bobby's heart is rocketing. He doesn't want to have to shoot Stig for real, but that's where this is headed if the son of a bitch keeps it up. And he absolutely is not staring at Stig's mouth.

He sucks in a breath. But he's gotten used to every expression Stigman is capable of, and there's nothing in his face but earnest intent. Like a sucker punch, Bobby remembers half a dozen remarks Stig's made in the last few months—shit Bobby took for the usual macho bull that guys use to rile each other up. There've been a lot of them, though. _You're thinkin', mmm, a little blindfold, maybe use your teeth—_ Two and two suddenly add up to a whole new picture of what's been going on between them.

"Stig—"

It comes out way more gentle than he means it to. This is, and there aren't enough words to emphasize, an epically bad idea. Bobby's kicking himself for missing something this big even as he's wondering whether he might have done something to encourage it—but the one thing he's not doing is putting a stop to it once and for all.

It's Stig's fault. The way he's looking at Bobby, like he's a prime steak and Christmas morning and everything in between—like Bobby isn't the same guy who shot him point blank in the thigh less than seventy-two hours ago.

His voice low, Stig says, "Tell me I'm wrong."

"You're fucked in the head, is what you are."

"Ain't no denyin' that, but tell me I'm wrong, Bobby. Tell me you ain't thought about it." The tips of his fingers scratch against Bobby's underwear, and Bobby realizes with a sinking sensation that he's already more than half-hard. He tightens his hand around Stig's wrist, feeling the fast beat of his pulse.

Without warning, he remembers Stig's voice in his ear, guiding him step by step through a dark apartment full of assholes who wanted him dead. This feels the same, except for the part where Bobby's pretty sure he didn't get turned on by the assholes shooting at him. Now, though, the sun is hot through the windshield, his whole body is flushed, and he hasn't been so aroused in such a short time since he was fourteen.

He swallows. Fuck.

"You realize this is a fucked up, profoundly stupid idea."

Stig grins. "That's correct. But we're doing it anyway." Without waiting for permission, he bends low over Bobby's lap, his hands busy moving things along.

"The fuck we are—oh, shit." With only a second of cool air for a heads up, Stig's tongue is on him. And goddamn, it has been a while, because Bobby feels it clear through his whole body like heat lightning.

Stig spreads his hands against Bobby's hips. He meets Bobby's eyes, and he looks for all the world like a kid in a candy store. "Anyone ever tell you, you talk too much?"

"Besides you?" But Stig has his hand on Bobby's dick then, and he squeezes a warning. His breath is hot. Bobby closes his eyes and drops his head back against the seat. "Fuck it."

"Workin' on it."

He is. With gusto. And goddamn, Stig's mouth is surprisingly soft, his tongue hot and maddeningly sure. He knows what he's doing, all right, and Bobby wants to ask where the fuck he learned to do that. Stig sucks him down like he was born to, and Bobby shudders.

"Ah, shit. Stig—" 

"Yeah."

Bobby really wants to burst the bubble of his ego, but it's taking all his concentration not to grab onto Stig's head and fuck into his mouth like he wants to. Just thinking about it makes his belly feel hot, his balls start to ache in the best way.

"Still don't like you."

"I know you don't."

"Stop, and I'll shoot you again."

"No, you won't."

"I sure as hell—oh, fuck, right there." Despite himself, he clutches a hand into Stig's hair.

"Now, that's what I'm talking about." The charms around Stig's neck swing against Bobby's balls, heavy and warm, the pressure just right to add that little something extra. Bobby bites back a groan. Stig grips Bobby's thighs, his thumbs dangerously close to the joins of his hips where the skin is most sensitive—Bobby's weak spot. If Stig touches him there, it's gonna be all over. 

Bobby lets go, but Stig keeps at it, showing Bobby what 'orally fixated' really means. It's not too long before Bobby's hanging on mostly by sheer will, and the dead-on certainty that he does not want this to end.

It's then that Stig stops to catch his breath and wet his lips. "Can I make a confession?"

Bobby digs his own nails into his palm to keep control over his voice. "You givin' me a choice?" Stig may know how to give the best head Bobby's ever had, but speaking of people who talk too goddamned much.

"Been thinkin' about doing this ever since you pulled up in that '64 Impala. Fuckin' bad ass, man."

"That right?"

"Yeah. Thought I was gonna cream myself right there." Stig huffs a laugh, his breath feather-soft on Bobby's all-too-eager dick. "Almost did." He rubs the side of his face against the sensitive head, then sucks Bobby in deep, a sweet pull and a gentle but thorough circling of his tongue.

Bobby thinks of cold fish, of snakes, of grandma underpants. It works, barely. He remembers it, all right. The look on Stig's face. The hero worship in his eyes, and the way he stepped in to put his back against Bobby's without a second's hesitation. _It's not about the Navy. You fight for the guy that's fighting next to you._

"Aw, fuck it." Bobby grabs hold of Stig's head and fucks into his mouth, grunting because it feels so goddamn good. Like it's what he was waiting for, Stig relaxes and opens up his throat, letting Bobby take over. It's perfect. Hot, slick, soft, tight—look up "blow job" in the Encyclopedia of Porn, and there's a picture of Petty Officer Michael Stigman, it's that good.

For no reason at all, Bobby remembers Stig arguing with him in a burning diner, insisting he leave a thirty percent tip for a woman neither of them would ever see again. How sure he'd been that neither of them would still be alive in a month's time.

Stig huffs a laugh, low and dirty. "Yeah? You like that?"

"Yeah, I fuckin' like it. Don't stop."

"M'not."

Finally, blessedly, Stig shuts up. Bobby's past stopping, now, his hands locked around Stig's head. "Fuck. Like that. You—" Stig sucks one last time like his life depends on it, and Bobby comes like he's eighteen and desperate for it, shaking despite himself. "Ah, fuck."

Stig swallows it all before he finally breaks off, gasping for air. "Goddamn it," he gets out. His hand is down his pants, his dick in his hand, jerking furiously. He leans against Bobby's shoulder and Bobby feels the sharp bite of his teeth. Bobby cups a hand around the back of Stig's head, and that's it for Stig; he comes with a jerk and a low gasp Bobby feels in places he doesn't expect. It's sweet as hell, and he lets himself think that thought for a good three seconds before he puts it away in a safe place, never again to see the light of day.

* * *

Bobby swallows, the sun in his eyes, and wishes he had some water to drink—anything. It's the goddamn middle of the day, he's sweating by the side of the road, and he's just let Michael Stigman suck him off in a car in broad daylight. The irony is, it's not even near the top of the list of suicidal shit he's done where Stig's concerned.

He clears his throat, giving Stig's neck a rough squeeze before letting go. "You good?"

"Mmn."

"Stig." Bobby gives it a meaningful pause. "You good?"

Stig takes a deep breath, then lets it out in something that sounds suspiciously like a sigh. "Sorry. Yeah. M'good." He pushes himself off of Bobby and back into the passenger seat where he belongs. Blinking, he rubs a hand over his mouth. Bobby sees the pink flick of his tongue touching the corner, and his dick gives an answering twitch that he'll deny to the grave. Stig, whose other hand is still down his pants, adjusts himself and makes a face. There's a small, spreading stain on the front of his jeans. "Fuck it, now I gotta change my clothes."

"Shoulda thought of that before," Bobby says.

Stig lets out a huff. "You ain't wrong," he admits. Bobby has to fight a smile.

He'd never meant to like the guy. He wasn't supposed to. He sure as hell hadn't pictured driving off into the goddamned sunset with the little prick, but here they are, the two of them, a million each in the lining of the trunk and all their bridges burned to the ground. All, that is, except each other.

Maybe he'll tell him about the two million at lunch. It'll be worth it just to see the look on his face.

Bobby zips up and starts the car. As he's shifting into gear, Stig digs in his pocket and comes up with a half-squashed stick of gum. He unwraps it, pops it in his mouth, and grins a shit-eating grin to end all shit-eating grins around it as he starts to chew.

"Orally. Fixated," Bobby says, enunciating each syllable like a gunshot, none wasted.

Stig's grin only widens. "Whatever it takes, Bobby. Whatever it takes."

**Author's Note:**

> 


End file.
